


Amárach

by meggie272



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Blowjobs, Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggie272/pseuds/meggie272
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Tomorrow’ can mean a very long time, if you’ve got the ruling, maintenance, reconstruction and defence of an entire shell-shocked land on your plate.</p><p>A Captain owes his King a debt. It's repaid, somewhere amidst the heavy weight of putting a nation back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amárach

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Propriety](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233156) by [tansy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tansy/pseuds/tansy). 



> a sequel to my favourite Fable story by my favourite Fable girl
> 
> here be dick sucking 
> 
> I don't remember how to write Ben Finn I'm very sorry

“Tomorrow,” Ben Finn says, not very long after he says some other things, like “Knew there was a reason I hadn’t shagged you before” and “Hey, I’m – ”

Finn’s a dirty liar.

Tomorrow comes and goes, uneventful with a significant lack of actual coming, and this is the day after.

It’s been four hours of this nonsense – no, this important, stately business – and so the King allows himself one brief, achingly bored look out of the window. The current speaker is shuffling his papers, searching for one particular incident in the records fifty years ago that supports his position re the current changes to Bowerstone road paving legislation, such as it is.

There are the gardens, all dark and layered and lovely, and the night sky.

The King of all Albion examines the stars for a controlled, clipped three seconds and then turns his attention back to the room. He nods at the speaker, who has faltered a little bit – go on. Go on. I’m totally listening. I care about your concerns, faithful citizen. Now is the time to be as strong, and as devoted, and as giving as he can. Even when it comes to road paving legislation. Albion is still restless, jittery, after the Crawler. It’s like when you wash your hands over and over and over, but you still feel like the dirt’s on your skin. In your skin, even. A King’s gotta listen to his people in a time like this.

Two minutes and seventeen seconds in, his eyes flicker over to where the Captain is standing in the corner. Ben Finn is straight-backed and there is a glazed emptiness in his face, but their gazes meet and the emptiness swiftly transforms to something like murderous mutiny.

The King tries to communicate that it won’t be too much longer through his expression, and Ben shifts minutely back into business mode. His hands flex by his sides, just once, fingers all long and taut. The King looks away and ignores the itch in his spine.

He’s not blushing.

He wouldn’t do that.

He’s a King.

*********

“God, that was so bloody boring.”

“All you had to do was stand there,” the King says mildly.

“I’m not made for just standing around, your _majesty_.” The inevitable entourage hums around them. The King strides ahead, trying to relieve the tight restlessness of his body. He’d like to run. He’d like to ride. He’d like to go to sleep. The corridors are too narrow. Could he just…with enough of a force blast he could edge everything a little bit further away from him. Nope. That’s evil. Evilness is something to be avoided. Must remember this.

“What are you made for, then, Captain?” he asks.

“Many things. Killing people, mainly.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have an endless supply of villains on hand for you to shoot.”

“This is Bowerstone.” Ben’s voice is right by his ear and it is the only one he hears clearly amongst ten to fifteen others, a weird kind of intimacy. “That’s the one thing you do have, I’d say. Probably about five sixths of that lot who came in today, fancy and civilised as they seem. Maybe seven eighths. And you wouldn’t let me shoot a single one.” His voice drops down to the low and seductive tone that the King knows he has used on every barmaid in Bowerstone. That’s just below the belt. Or, well, it’s _not_ below the belt, and that’s exactly the problem.

“Please don’t cause a diplomatic incident, Ben. I’m retiring to my chambers now,” the King says, and it comes out all stiff and awkward. Two things that he’s feeling increasingly himself the more that Ben’s shoulder brushes against his. There’s the smell of him, gunpowder or whatever it is, cutting through the soft, sweaty perfume that seems to fill every corner of the palace. The sharp, not-really-pleasant realness of him is a good and welcome thing amongst all this velvet and polished wood.

They stop. People billow and part around them. The moment is stuck. The King is unsure whether he’s invited Ben back to his room or not. Ben looks unsure as well.

“Unimpressed with my extensive command of fractions?”

“Oh, no, it was quite commendable.” Ben’s mouth quirks up a little at the corner and, well, there it is. That’s something. That’s a little bit of surety. Security. You could invest that mouth quirk. Save it up for later.

“Well, I do strive for excellence in basically _every_ aspect of my life. Arithmetic included.” Oh, no, no, this has to end right now, if it’s gone as far as flirting obliquely around each other using mathematics as a cover then someone has to do something for the sake of the entire nation.

 “Ben – ” the King starts, moving towards him with a frustrated and utterly fed-up momentum, but he is interrupted by the high and frantic tones of a messenger that wedges in between them like some little uniformed _devil._

“Your Majesty! There’s a riot in the slums! Fifty dead already!”

Well, fuck.

*********

It doesn’t really happen until about a month later.

Well, they’re busy. ‘Tomorrow’ can mean a very long time, if you’ve got the ruling, maintenance and defence of an entire shell-shocked nation on your plate.

At a formal luncheon at which many important nobles sit and look fussy, bored and/or drunk, navigating an endless arrangement of cutlery, Ben Finn is on the King’s right side. He sits sprawled, ungainly and unprofessional, red in the cheeks with wine. Someone directs a question at him about the spate of disorderly behaviour in Albion’s armed forces recently. He laughs loudly, uncouthly. A tavern laugh. The King goes into damage control mode ahead of time, just to be prepared.

“Are you aware of recent events at all, madam? Half of those boys had to look that Crawler right in its void tentacles. Half of them saw their friends get torn apart by literal darkness. I don’t blame them for wanting to drink piss and fuck until they can’t remember a thing.”

He then spears a small cherry tomato with his knife. The King nudges him – pull it together. Ben looks at him, tipsy and weary, unbecomingly flushed, and slides the tomato off the knife with his teeth. Then he puts his hand directly on the King’s thigh. “Don’t you agree, your majesty?” he asks.

They end up in the King’s chambers at about three-thirty in the afternoon, when the King can finally get away and tell the guards at the door that he’s not to be disturbed. The King and his Captain are discussing important strategy.

The King is against the wall and the Captain is on his knees, fumbling with the laces at the King’s formal britches. Disembodied he sees them from the outside, as someone looking through the window or the door would, the pair of them pressed against the hard grey wall with the watery winter sun gilding bare skin; the king, standing, barely, the captain, kneeling.

Ben tugs his pants down, roughly, and the hairs on his bare thighs stand up in the chill. There was no time to pause and kindle the fire as they stumbled through the door, Ben’s hands already shoving the heavy fur cloak off his shoulders, pulling his shirt out of his belt, the King willing to let himself be guided, pushed more like, shoved up against the wall like a common criminal. It’s so cold. The feverish heat in his cheeks confuses him in comparison, like being sick.

It is as if they are trying to crawl away from luxury, from all the royal trappings and trim, in their deliberate refusal to move to the bed, which is a block of distant and pristine perfection in his unfocused vision. It would be better back in that alley. It only works for the two of them when it hurts a little, really, as kinky as that sounds – when someone’s back is pressed against stone or when a monarchy is about to fall. This monarch feels he may be about to fall, his knees as weak as the winter light.

The King briefly considers the prospect of making love to Ben properly, all entwined in sheets and candlelight, and finds he can’t do it. If, in the full and bright light of a summer’s day, he went for a kiss, they’d both laugh too hard to breathe at the ridiculousness of it. Wouldn’t they?

One of Ben’s hands is placed large and hot and a little sweaty on his hip. The King tangles his own hands in Ben’s hair, trying not to buck into his mouth, although he suspects Ben could take it just fine. His own breathing is obnoxiously loud. Sorry, Bowerstone, he thinks, trying to direct his thoughts out the window and into the cobblestones. Sorry I can’t be dignified right now.

“I really wanted this, Ben,” he says quietly, his whole heart shaking.

He doesn’t look down, but he knows in his bones that Ben rolls his eyes in response. Even so,  Ben’s thumb smooths gently over bare skin, under the rumpled cotton of his shirt.

“You’re so – you’re so distracting sometimes, I can hardly – ” He feels a detached panic as words tumble out of his mouth. The rapid beating in his chest and the heat of Ben’s mouth and hands compared to the cold of the air, the stone, the sunlight, everything in the world that is not Ben Finn; it’s all making him lose his grip on the situation, which is not something that should happen to a King. Grips must be gotten.

Ben licks up the shaft and pulls off, and the King makes some dreadful, undisciplined little noise at the sudden loss of it, but in half a second Ben is upright and kissing the sound away, bright and hard and unexpected like a month ago. It feels a whole lot more intimate than, you know, the cock-sucking, which is a bit illogical, and the King fists his hands into Ben’s half-undone shirt in confused, nervous passion.  This also feels like an reprimand (a smoochy reprimand, but a reprimand none the less) for starting to get emotional about things, for putting this particular instance of trying to achieve orgasm in each other’s proximity into a longer timeline, making it a _thing,_ a causal chain of tugging, insistent attraction, stretching over months, lurking behind all those friendly slaps on the back, those energetic, intelligent conversations about the state – but the King is okay with all of this. Ben can shut things down if he wants. Probably better if he does. Someone has to save the pair of them from themselves.  Let’s just tell ourselves this is a random isolated incident, the fates doing what they will for their own inscrutable reasons, nothing to do with personal, individual desire or free will – a butterfly flapped its wings in Aurora and so Ben dropped to his knees and put his monarch’s cock in his mouth.

Or maybe we could think of it in economic terms – orgasm for orgasm, I got you off in your dark and beer-soaked alley, you get me off in this cold, regal box, transaction done, the end, move on.

“You’re bloody ridiculous, do you ever shut your gob?” Ben hisses softly against his mouth, the bite of stubble and the wash of warm, wine-scented breath two separate textures on the King’s skin. “Coming from you,” the King begins a weak rebuke, but lets it trail off as Ben moves his mouth to the King’s neck and his hand decisively downwards, starts jerking him off in quick, strong strokes, which is, according to the tugging jolt in the King’s lower spine, going to be the end of it very, very soon.

There is the scrape of teeth against the tendon in his neck and the King says ‘Don’t – ‘. To his credit,  Ben doesn’t, just keeps his lips hotly on the skin as the King shudders and breathes his way through it.

“There.” Ben steps back, looks vaguely disgusted at the come on his hand. “Tit for tat. Despite the lack of actual tits.”

Oh, okay, so it’s the economic approach. That’s all right, then. Absolutely fine. I mean, what else was he expecting? Nothing. That’s what.

Ben looks beautiful, and tired, and still so flushed in the cheeks, as he washes his hands in the basin. The King stares at him gormlessly, muscles watery and head filled with a glittery cloud of endorphins.

“Bloody chilly in here,” Ben says, turning around abruptly to look at the ashy deadness of the fireplace. The King analyses the angles of his Captain’s back as he does up the laces of his trousers.

“Come on, then, let’s have some magic fire,” Ben continues when he gets no response. Silently, and still feeling a little wobbly, the King moves up beside him and sets the fireplace ablaze with a burst of flame from one outstretched hand.

“That’s better.” Ben splays out his hands which are a mottled colour from the near freezing temperature of the water, the knuckles starbursts of white.

The King grunts in response.

“What, are you pissed off at me now because I didn’t let you spill the royal seed in my mouth?” Ben jabs at him with a bony elbow.  The King goes for some kind of sharp reply, but then they make eye contact, and the worry in Ben’s expression is enough to melt his heart a little bit.

“No. Could never be pissed off at you,” he says quietly.

“Well, _that’s_ a blatant and unashamed load of bollocks if ever I heard one,” the Captain replies cheerfully, rubbing his hands together to get the warmth back in. There’s a palpable relief in him and the King can _see_ him return to chirpy nonchalance, already getting the ‘right-I’ll-be-off-then-there’s-adventures-to-be-had-elsewhere’ look about him.

Spurred by a sudden rush of affection, or maybe just a sudden urge to annoy Ben Finn and poke holes in his determinedly fickle persona, or maybe both, the King puts his hand on the small of Ben’s back, good-quality cotton soft over freckled skin over hard muscle, the King’s touch over all. He makes sure to do it with a sort of regal possessiveness, for maximum effect.

“…and I’ve heard a few,” Ben adds awkwardly, after a couple of moments.

“I’m sure you have, Captain.” The King doesn’t take his hand away. Ben doesn’t move, and maybe even leans into the touch a little bit.

They watch the flames, absorb the heat.

“Fire good enough for you?” the King offers eventually, when the silence starts to get to him a bit. A quiet Ben Finn is an unnerving Ben Finn.

Ben smiles distantly, the firelight showing up the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. “Good enough for me, mate.”

And so it is, until the King remembers he is a King, and the Captain remembers he is a Captain, and they go their separate ways into the winter’s afternoon.


End file.
